Work Text:
Jehan had finally fallen in love; of this, he was certain. For all his life, he had longed to fall in love, to experience that heightened emotion. And now he had finally gotten what he wanted. But he was also convinced that he had fallen in love with the wrong person.
Courfeyrac.
Courfeyrac, who had had so many lovers, who was so experienced, and, at times, so jaded. And so Jehan watched him from afar, falling in love with him more each day, contenting himself with simply being his friend, with spending time with him within the group.
He doesn’t realize that Courfeyrac was watching him as well.
Slowly, everything began to change.
Jehan’s poetry, for example. Courfeyrac had become his muse; it was becoming more and more obvious. Everything he wrote seemed to be centered on him. He was falling in love with every single thing about him, and there was nothing he could do to stop himself. He stopped sharing his poetry with the others, claiming he hadn’t written anything new if any one of them asked. When Courfeyrac asked, a blush ignited his face, and try as he might to will it away, it would not leave.
Courfeyrac’s habits had changed as well. He was trying, really trying, to make Jehan notice that he was interested in him, that he saw him as more than a friend, but…he wasn’t sure how to do that. He tried, with lingering touches and glances, but Jehan merely blushed and looked away, for once so unknowledgeable about these romantic things.
And so they both waited, hoping for the right moment to tell the other of their intentions, and if Jehan’s poetry became more and more directed at Courfeyrac and if Courfeyrac’s now-less-frequent lovers began to look more and more like Jehan, well, c’est la vie.